


i need new ways (to waste my time)

by schism



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Gen, Identity Issues, M/M, counts more as pre-slash than anything, ed lies to himself: the 3k word fanfic, hallucination!Oswald, set neatly in the timeframe between 3x14 and 3x19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 02:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11139159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Despite what he keeps telling himself, Ed has a hard time moving on.





	i need new ways (to waste my time)

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this because i couldn't fall asleep last night and because i wanted to do anything but study for my exams next week. 
> 
> title is from "new ways" by daughter. i thought the lyrics suited ed's mindset during this timeframe rather nicely.
> 
> minor edit 18/07/2017: tweaked some wording and added extra sentences in a few places that needed them.

He takes the first pills out of necessity.

He doesn’t recall where he got them – perhaps it’s not worth remembering. A month ago, the mere idea of taking drugs would’ve been preposterous. He’s never needed any chemical stimulants before, his brain restless enough on its own.

He doesn’t need any pills.

Until he does.

It’s been a week since the docks. The hunt for the city’s missing mayor – he refuses to think of the man as anything other than that, whether out of unease or of a semblance of grief, he’s not completely sure – is reaching a critical stage, as is the pile of documents on his desk, all of which need to be reviewed and signed.

The house is empty, nobody other than him daring to disturb its crypt-like stillness – people only show up to bring deliveries of files and folders and questions he cannot answer truthfully, and never venture further inside from the entrance hall.

He’s left alone, for the most part.

Perhaps it’s for the best.

Now that its owner is gone and its halls left vacant in his absence, the manor groans and rattles even during the day, stray gusts of wind fluttering through the hallways. It’s quiet like a church and silent like a grave.

He hasn’t slept in two days.

So, he takes out the metal box from his pocket and pops two of the small white pills first onto his palm, then onto his tongue. They don’t taste like anything, which he mulls over while chewing them up and finally forcing himself to swallow the mixture of powder and saliva.

Briefly, he thinks he should’ve picked up a glass of water from the kitchen to wash them down with.

But no matter: the synthetic high kicks in fast and he feels more alive than he has in weeks. Sure, his hands are shaking something awful and his vision is blurry at the edges, heartbeat fluttering in his chest, but everything feels light.

For a moment, he wonders if this is what it feels like to fly.

And then he hears it – water dripping on the floorboards, followed by heavy, limping footsteps.

The hyper-focus shatters like glass and he’s left gasping, gripping the corners of his desk and trying to figure out how to breathe again. For a moment, he’s back at the docks, a gun in his hand and his former best friend in front of him, reduced to tearful, pathetic begging, rainfall drenching them both even though only one is meant to end up underwater.

The whole scene runs through his mind in less than two seconds.

He’s terrified to look up at the doorway.

At least he thinks he’s terrified.

He doesn’t know.

And that uncertainty is half the reason he’s nauseous.

He tells himself it’s just the pills, that he’s imagining things, that there’s no way…

But he doesn’t look up. He stays right where he is for half an hour, hunched over the desk, his eyes shut, desperately trying to reassure himself, until he falls asleep for the first time in two days.

The empty house creaks and sighs around him.

 

***

 

The second time is different, but not by much.

It’s the next day and there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping at his desk. If anything, he feels worse than before – weariness has given way first to fatigue, then exhaustion.

The house around him is empty, hauntingly so.

So, he sits on the couch in the quiet parlor and he takes the pills out again – just to have a little while of not feeling hollow, too.

It’s much like the first time. Until it’s not.

Because this time he doesn’t have the option of closing his eyes and hiding his face to spare himself the sight.

Because this time, Oswald appears right next to him without a warning.

He draws a sharp breath. Seeing him again is–

It’s–

He’s not sure _what_ it is exactly, heart racing and hands shaking and nausea threatening to make him keel over right there and then.

Oswald – _not_ -Oswald, he has to remind himself, it isn’t _really_ him, just a facsimile of the real thing, covered in filthy water and mud and blood and lacking the tears and the desperation that complete the image seared into the back of his eyelids – smiles.

“I figured it was just a matter of time before you did something like this,” _it_ – he refuses to think of it as _him_ – says, but it sounds so much like him that–

No.

 _It_ is just an odd side-effect of the pills, and decidedly not a pleasant one.

“Go away,” he growls at the apparition and its smile widens into a grin.

“I’m in your head, silly. I’m not going anywhere. You should already know that. I mean, for heaven’s sake, you’re still living in my home. It’s as if you don’t _want_ to forget.”

He closes his eyes and starts counting seconds under his breath in a desperate bid to focus on something other than the way the _thing_ seems to take up physical space, the smell of brine and blood and the heaviness of its breathing almost tangible in the air.

Not-Oswald laughs and laughs and laughs.

When he gets somewhere around six hundred, silence falls once more.

He opens his eyes.

He’s alone again.

 

***

 

The third and fourth time are much the same as the second.

Because after the second time, he convinces himself he can power through it, can ignore the sight of a ghastly reminder of the past, of what he’s done, because taking the pills means he can get at least _something_ done once the initial buzz fades and he’s left with nothing but alertness and a racing heartbeat, alone in his own mind once more.

The fourth time is when he finally admits defeat.

He’s wasting time with waiting out the hallucination, and he can’t stand it.

It’s been three days since his first – and, frankly, disastrous – attempt to make the pills work _for_ him, not _against_ him.

So, he takes the pills for the fifth time, determination guiding his hand.

He chews them up and swallows them; he’s found it to be the most convenient method of consumption and requiring the least extra hassle, which he doesn’t have time for.

As he’s come to expect by this point, not-Oswald appears in the blink of an eye, still dressed in the same water-logged clothes, still pale and lifeless, its eyes empty and its mouth curved into a smile.

“Took you long enough,” it says, tone dripping with amusement, “it’s only been, what, five hours? You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

He ignores the undercurrent of venom in the apparition’s voice, so like the real thing but still not exactly right, like an art forgery that looks solid from afar but which falls apart quite readily once its details are examined, leaving the observer to wonder how they ever allowed themselves to be tricked.

 _It_ isn’t real, after all, no matter how uncanny the resemblance may be at times.

That gives him something akin to courage.

“I don’t take them because of you,” he tells the apparition, addressing it directly for the first time. He still can’t quite bring himself to look it in the eye.

Unsurprisingly, it laughs in his face.

“Keep telling yourself that, if it keeps you sane,” it says and settles down onto the couch.

He stares at it with indignation. “What are you doing?”

“Why, making myself comfortable,” it tells him with a sly wink.

“You’ll ruin the upholstery,” he says quietly, before he remembers.

It can’t ruin anything, can’t exact any influence on the world around it because…

Because _it_ isn’t real, this… this _thing_ lounging on the couch as if it belongs there, this _lie_ that seemingly has taken a life of its own, and because of what?

Because he misses his dead best friend? The man who betrayed both his trust and his friendship for what _he_ claimed was love but what he knows was selfishness and jealousy?

Because he regrets what he’s done?

He laughs, a vacant sound.

He doesn’t regret a thing.

Finally, irritation sets in.

“Get up,” he growls at the _thing_ that’s sitting where it doesn’t belong.

Not-Oswald smirks. “I don’t think so.”

He feels a headache coming on, barely managing to keep his anger in check, punctuating each word with a pause. “Get. Up. Now.”

“Why should I? It’s not like you can do anything to me. You’re talking as if you could kill me – _again_. And we both know you can’t, so I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do, because you _can’t_ make me,” it tells him smugly, saluting him with a glass of wine that wasn’t in its hand a moment ago.

He rubs his temples and tries to take deep breaths, closing his eyes to block out the offending creature. There’s no use in trying to argue with it. It isn’t real, after all, no matter how real it is starting to feel.

Not-Oswald chuckles. “ _Do_ try not to give yourself an aneurysm, _old friend_. I’d hate for you to join me so soon.”

When he finally opens his eyes again, the couch is empty.

 

***

 

The sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth time pass much in the same fashion as the fifth.

He tells himself he can get through the agonizing ten minutes that it takes for the apparition to disappear – by the eighth time, he’s finally had enough sense to keep an eye on a clock during the hallucination to see how long it lasts –but for the high from the pills to still be effective enough to help and not hinder him.

By the tenth time, however, he’s gotten tired of the constant mockery from the hallucination. It’s distracting enough that it irritates him endlessly and makes the pills almost useless.

Almost.

Because he’s finally started to come up with a plan on how to rid himself of the lingering doubts and pesky feelings distracting him from what truly matters: creating a legacy. He’s ready to become something _more_ , to shed the trivialities of his current self and _be_ someone worthy of awe.

Because for almost thirty years of existence, he has nothing to show – a failed career as a forensics scientist, nothing but failed relationships and bloodshed. At least this way he can make it all mean something, make it worth something; a part of the journey to finally become the person he’s meant to be.

So, he takes the pills for the tenth time, the motion almost routine by now.

He blinks and the hallucination is there once more.

“Finally found yourself a purpose, then,” it says, cocking its head and smiling at him patronizingly.

He ignores the flash of anger deep within his chest.

“If I’m going to truly be someone in this town, then I need an enemy, because what is a villain without a hero to save the day?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm by the end of the sentence.

Not-Oswald narrows its eyes. “I – well, the _other_ me – never needed one. Are you sure this isn’t just a desperate bid to hold onto me – well, _him_ , it’s not like _I’m_ going anywhere – for a little while longer?”

He scoffs. “I do not care about _him_.”

“Sure,” it says, laughing, “because it’s not as if you’re talking to your own mind’s projection of him, is it?”

The flash of anger he’s been managing to keep subdued finally reaches its breaking point and before he realizes, he’s trying to grab at the hallucination. Of course, his hands pass right through it.

 _It_ isn’t there, after all.

Not-Oswald laughs and retreats until it’s out of his grasp. It’s kind of funny that he’s heard the hallucination laugh more than he ever heard its likeness laugh in the time they’d known each other. Genuinely laugh, that is.

Because Oswald’s laughter had tended to be on the humorless side, snide chuckles meant to mock, not expressions of sincere delight – but there had been times, few and far between, where the laughter had been real and it had been the most–

“You can look, but you can’t touch, dear _Ed_ ,” the hallucination says and shocks him out of his trail of thought.

He bristles at the mention of his given name. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you, then?” it asks, lifeless eyes lighting with something resembling mild amusement.

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out.”

The hallucination snorts. “I’m sure you will.”

He blinks and it’s gone.

His stopwatch reads eight minutes and fifty-two seconds.

 

***

 

His plan isn’t going as expected.

Which means he takes more pills, tells himself they’re for keeping himself sharp, for helping him understand where he’s been going wrong so he can fix it.

He is absolutely not taking them for any other reason.

“All this just to replace me – well, _him_ ,” not-Oswald says with a laugh when it appears for the _n_ th time; he’s given up on keeping count, far too weary and frustrated to focus on something so minute. “And, unsurprisingly, you’re failing.”

He huffs a breath and doesn’t say anything. There’s no point in arguing with a statement he already knows to be true.

“Did you honestly think there was even a glimmer of a chance you’d succeed?”

“You’re not – you _weren’t_ – _that_ unique. Don’t kid yourself. I’ll find a worthy enemy, there’s plenty of people in Gotham,” he says and there’s a twinge somewhere behind his ribs.

“Oh, _please_. I know everything you’re thinking, you know. Even the things you don’t want to admit to yourself.”

He flinches, ever so slightly, but recovers fast enough to, irrationally, hope the apparition didn’t notice. Of course, it notices everything.

“Touched a nerve there, didn’t I? You can keep lying to yourself all you want but I know you, Edward Nygma. I know you better than you know yourself – and _he_ did, too.” It laughs, the sound hollow. “What makes you think you could ever replicate _that_ with anyone else?”

“I don’t need another y– another _him_. I just need an enemy worthy of my time.”

“Sure, if you say so. It’s not like your riddles are oh-so-transparent, is it? _Loneliness_. _Reflection_. _Individual_. You can dress it up however you want but we both know the truth. You miss him.”

He hurls the marker he’d been holding at the apparition. A futile effort, sure, but one that provides much-needed, if temporary, satisfaction.

Not-Oswald laughs and laughs and laughs.

When it finally vanishes, he looks at the stopwatch.

Seven minutes and forty-eight seconds.

 

***

 

He walks away from the docks for what he thinks is the last time, finally victorious.

He’s left his old self behind, sent it sinking beneath the waves to rot in the depths along with Oswald’s corpse.

He’s the Riddler now, and the Riddler is unencumbered by memories of lost lovers and dead best friends.

Ephemeral emotions like that are unbefitting for one such as he.

  
***

 

Not-Oswald’s laughter still echoes in his mind every time he wakes up, mocking and comforting in turn, a wisp of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, that he can never quite recall after the fact, until he remembers who he is.

The Riddler doesn’t have time for trivial matters.

 

***

 

He meets with the woman named Kathryn, guided to her by Jim Gordon like a lamb to the slaughter – a fact he only realizes in hindsight.

She doesn’t tell him anything useful.

She doesn’t tell him anything at all.

Instead of finding out everything concerning the mystery that’s been nagging in the back of his mind for over a year, he’s stuck inside an oversized birdcage like an animal, his clothes and his dignity taken from him with a snap of the woman’s fingers.

They give him a hideous, scratchy grey jumpsuit.

The food they give him is little better than the slop he’d gotten at Arkham.

Needless to say, he’s furious.

But, he keeps reminding himself, he also needs to get out of there as soon as possible, which means he must paint himself into a model of compliance.

It’ll be far easier to break out if his security detail is minimal.

And at least here they’re nothing if not polite in their silence; it beats Arkham any day, he decides, even if imprisonment here is far less eventful than it was there.

But, just like Arkham, it’s far lonelier an existence than what he endured at the empty manor or at his hideout in an abandoned hotel, even though he was mostly alone there all the time as well.

So, he sits in his cage, reads the old newspapers they deign to bring him, and waits for an opportunity.

 

***

 

He’s been there for three days when something impossible happens.

A familiar voice, complaining loudly as it is being lead down the corridor, then escalating to shouts as the man is locked into the cage next to his.

“My name is Oswald Cobblepot! You cannot do this to me – I _demand_ to speak to the person in charge!” he screeches, indignation dripping from every word, and it’s _him_ , but it can’t be, it’s not possible–

“Oswald.” The name escapes from his mouth before he can stop it.

The man turns, slowly, tense like a predator poised to attack.

He can’t help but gasp.

“You’re alive?” it comes out less like a question and more like a growl; after all this time, after all the effort he’d put into killing him… he’s standing there, the same as ever, clad in a jumpsuit just like his.

Oswald doesn’t reply, just stares at him between the bars like a wild animal – he’s never looked at him like this before, never looked ready to tear him apart limb by limb with his bare hands; he’d been angry before the election results had heralded his victory, sure, but not like this, never like this, never at _him_.

Something deep within his ribcage flutters.

Whether for excitement or fear, he doesn't know.

Quick as a grey mongoose, Oswald reaches out.

**Author's Note:**

> find me @ batsybatsybats on tumblr


End file.
